The Glass Menagerie
by thebprt
Summary: Hartford wasn't known for its bars. She seemed to have found the one that she should've missed . A leering sign , sheltered in grime , flickering weakly in the hum of streetlights .
1. 1

The Glass Menagerie

Collaboration between thebeautifullypainfulretrospect and jlangblues891

Disclaimer: The characters Rory and Jess belong to Amy Sherman-Paladino . The poem _Love_ belongs to Pablo Neruda .

**" I**** look at myself and say ;'What did I find in you ? What was my inspiration?"**

_ Inspiration found in a lack ness of life purses its lips , pushing a great motivation in moving . From lonely town to back road bar filthy with smoke and alive with life ,its scent peeking out of every crevice, and shimmying out of every silky jazz note . It envelopes your psyche and pulls you in by the lapels of your deepest desires, only to spit you out not knowing who you were in the first place._

Just like the shatter of glass pulled him as he slipped out of his former New York . A different force drew him into Hartford , Connecticut. It was so pristine , like someone had silently whisked over it with cleaning supplies while he wasn't looking . Except the grungy building on the corner .It was exactly how one would envision a go-go bar . A leering sign , sheltered in grime , flickering weakly in the hum of streetlights .

It was unlike any bar he'd been to before A crossover of a basement open mic nights in Harlem and the seedy clubs of Nevada . Yet , it wasn't like any of that . Pablo Neruda's _Love_ crooned softly in the background , while women stripped in glass cages high above the floor . The dingy countertop was bare , save for a few Coronas nursed by recipients with half dead eyes . The bartender wiped the counter in monotonous circles , all while staring almost tenderly up at the glass showrooms above. The atmosphere was tinged with a tiredness , as if the world rested on the shoulders of every person inhabiting the bar. The only thing that seemed constant was the motion of the shapely bodies gyrating above their heads .

She didn't know how she had ended up here. She had been a debutante, once. The white dress, the long gloves... she had wanted that life. She had been sure of it. _Harvard. Responsibility. __Independence_ Independence was gone from her life. She was dependant upon men wanting more than they deserved. A new song filled the bar, easing it's way to her mind. She breathed in; all she had to offer those men was a comfort she wanted.

Somehow she had lost track. Harvard was gone. The white dress was torn and ripped. _Misplaced_. Her page had been lost inside an endless book, and now she was here. A go go bar, one that was miles from Stars Hollow, and light-years from what she used to be.

Hartford wasn't known for its bars. She seemed to have found the one that she should've missed. She looked down below the glass and felt like she was falling.

The glass cage didn't seem so much like a cage anymore, and the people who were there didn't seem as lonely as they once had. Maybe she was just lonely now, too.

She took another drink. The song changed again.

**Love**

**Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the  
perfumes of spring.  
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;  
how did your lips feel on mine?  
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,  
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.  
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten  
your eyes.  
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of  
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will  
do me irreparable harm.  
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.  
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every  
window.  
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because  
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting  
stars, falling objects. **


	2. 2

The Glass Menagerie

Collaboration between thebeautifullypainfulretrospect and jlangblues89

Disclaimer : The characters Rory and Jess belong to Amy Sherman-Paladino . Any reference to Tennessee William's play _The Glass Menagerie_ is purely coincidental .

_There is something oddly interesting about girls who dress like boys . The tired frizz of their hair and the old , baggy pants suit them as a second skin , and they are almost swallowed by their own façade . They grasp cigarettes tentatively in their hands, the fading glow matches the glower in their eyes as they stare at the flickering fantasy in front of them. They are interesting in the way this girl is intriguing ._

_The innocence of her looks clash with _softjagged _edge__ in her eyes . There were remnants of _her _in those eyes . _

He remembered the pale pink of her straggly hair and her wrinkled , wizened face as she puttered about the shelves of where the old bookstore used to be. Muttering insistently about how Salinger was much better than Esquivel anyway but who could really tell because they are so different and I am lost and is lost and . Deep down to where he couldn't hurt he felt sorry for her . Not knowing sanity . But in retrospect , sanity was her and in this girl .

They dance as if they're in slow motion, and he can't help but watch. It feels wrong --so wrong-- but he can't stop. He knows that some of these girls shouldn't be there, but they are. They're there, and he's here... and the bartended just slid him another. He shook his head slightly as he watched. _This is the great American dream._

She is tired, and the music is throbbing through her veins her eyes her head. The music never stopped never waited- just went on (and on), urging her to continue. There iss something painful about that. She can never escape. It makes her want to lay down on the floor, and just lay there forever. What else is there to do?

He leans towards her, motioning for her to listen to what he's about to say. She stands there and looks at him. He mouths something, but it's blurry and she can't understand. The air in the room grows colder --someone opened the back door-- and she shivers. Only for the reason to become warmer, she sits down next to him. Her back is rigid and her hair is pulled away from her face. _Teacher, teacher_.

'Hey,' he says simply. She looks at him. He's slouching in his chair, his beat up shoes pressing against the legs of the table. His leather jacket is worn and frayed. He doesn't look like anyone she's met before. That's the only criteria she had to make, and she did.

So she says hey, too.


End file.
